Mirror, Mirror

by Colette Coen

At a triptych of mirrors I pluck and pull the thick black hairs of my crossed and knotted brow. I move the Tweed and the Yardley to get a closer look, focusing as each hair surrenders its bulbous root. In the left-hand mirror I glimpse the perfectly shaped arches framing her questioning eyes. She would brush and tweeze every day, then with a ladylike spit would scour at the tablet of mascara, and comb through the clumps.

I used to play with the mirrors, making an infinity of images to divine the future or relive the past.

Now, ignoring the tidied death bed, I twist her lipstick and apply it like a kiss. I whisper my goodbyes as my hands run across her dressing table and the little bits of nonsense that made her life. Then I straighten the wings and the mirror finally reflects only my own eyes.

Colette Coen is currently writing short stories, flash and poetry while eating Bournville chocolate.

Another beautiful and evocative piece of writing Colette, and hugely moving – congratulations! Takes me back to my mum’s dressing table and what a magical place it was. Now having seen my daughters at my dressing table over the years, I have often wondered what memories are being stored up for them.

That’s very thoughtful. It made me think of different times in my life when I’ve put on a face, so that I could expose myself to the wider world. I inherited a dressing table from an aunt who moved to Australia and used to play with the mirrors like that. Keep writing – please.